


Got you to the bone

by maharetr



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: BDSM, Consensual Kink, Established Relationship, Fisting, M/M, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:30:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maharetr/pseuds/maharetr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clay glances at Jensen, and Clay barely has to quirk an eyebrow, doesn't even have to flick a glance in Cougar's direction, for Jensen to know exactly what Clay's asking. <i>You got Cougar?</i> And Jensen nods, because, yeah, he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Got you to the bone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cleo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo/gifts).



Sometimes having a photographic memory fucking sucks. Stashed forever, along with reams of useless code that didn’t work and a hundred fake phone numbers from a hundred bars, Jensen now has the memory, seconds old, of Roque’s voice in his earpiece: a quiet, considered, and utterly terrifying “oh, _fuck_ \--“

The words bypass Jensen’s conscious brain and go straight for his legs: he’s pivoting fast, back towards their entry point across the warehouse which is suddenly as big as a football field. It’s all happening in slow-motion and high definition. Jensen’s halfway through his second stride when there’s the gut-sinkingly familiar whine of a jammed signal from his earpiece, and he’s a whole three strides forward, and going for a fourth, when the bobby trap detonates. 

The shockwave slams Jensen into the floor like it wants to crush him, but he’s still conscious enough to register that breathing is fucking impossible for a minute or two, never mind being able to see through the dust.

His feet know what’s going on, though. As soon as he can get his legs under him, they take him right back towards Roque and Clay, where the wall… had been. He doesn’t realise that his ears are ringing until he tries to yell, “Pooch! Roque! Clay!” and the resulting dust-filled coughing fit echoes alarmingly through his head, feels like it’s sitting in his ears. _Shit, shit shit…_

He falls over something that’s… not explosion debris, is too soft and yielding for that, and he gropes around until he’s felt enough to register a flak jacket, still on a torso, and he gets a grip on the jacket and hauls.

He can’t hear shit, but he’s looking in the right direction to see the brief pinpricks of light the spray of automatic fire makes as it punches through the walls. He’s pretty sure he’s trying to chant “oh, shit, oh, you _fuckers_ ”, but the dust is hampering any sort of rhythm. Jensen flattens himself over … Pooch, he’s got Pooch under him, face up, breathing little puffs of air against Jensen’s cheek, and that’s the sweetest fucking thing he’s felt all week.

Jensen squints, but can’t see any more bullet holes appearing, and they sure as fuck can’t stay here. He keeps as low as he can, and drags Pooch along beside him, trying to look forward for attack, and back for Roque and Clay, and down so he’s not dragging Pooch over broken glass or something, and sometimes Jensen really hates his job.

He works his way deeper into the building, but either his sense of direction is fucked, or their intel was wrong, wrong, wrong: their emergency exit just leads into a warren of corridors and things to crash into. Jensen ends up hauling an alarmingly still-limp Pooch out a window, apologising for the bumps and scrapes and probable worsening of spinal injuries and cranial fucking haemorrhages on the way.

Outside, in the sweet, sunlit air, he checks Pooch over for immediate damage. There’s a truly alarming amount of blood covering his face, but it all seems to be coming from the gash on his forehead, and he shifts feebly when Jensen pinches his calf and that’s a great sign. Jensen hauls Pooch over his shoulder and stumbles his way into a jog, around the corner of the building, and falls straight over a body.

 _Head shot_ , Jensen notes as the air smacks out of his lungs, again. There’s another body a few feet away near their entry door, and this one’s clutching a semi-automatic. _Shot in the back_ Jensen notes; the burst of gunfire had been a death rattle. There are other bodies, all wearing the local guerrilla uniform, all dispatched by neat, precise headshots. _Cougar_ , Jensen thinks, allowing himself a moment to grin.

_Ambush_ , his mind supplies, too, and there’s going to be plenty of time to be pissed about that later, but right now it’s all about getting Pooch up over his shoulder and stumbling his way into a jog.

Pooch shifts in a way that doesn’t relate to being jolted around on the run, and it’s that sweet, magic moment where Pooch is conscious and just aware enough to realise what’s going on, and relaxes enough to make himself easier to carry. Jensen pats him affectionately on the ass and moves faster.

His hearing is currently tuned to a permanent high-pitched whine, so the Humvee barrelling through the undergrowth scares the crap out him; he’s almost, _almost_ glad that Pooch is probably similarly tuned and can’t hear him yelp. For a moment, he doesn’t even recognise the vehicle, but he’d know the shape of that hat behind the wheel anywhere.

Cougar lunges out of the driver’s side, even as Clay jumps down from the bed. Cougar gets to them first, grabbing at Jensen’s shirt, and for a moment his hat is up high enough that Jensen gets a faceful of Cougar Look. Cougar’s eyes are wide, and he’s breathing hard, and it’s not even totally an _I’m so pissed at you_ face – Jensen can deal with those just fine – it’s much worse than that.

Then Clay is there, and Cougar pulls his hat lower, and they’re busy getting Pooch carefully down off Jensen’s shoulder. Clay is covered in equal parts dust and soot and blood, but he couldn’t be terribly injured _and_ be moving that fast.

“Roque?” Jensen can’t tell if he’s whispering or screaming at this point, but Clay points towards the bed and gives him a thumbs up as he helps haul Pooch into the back seat. Jensen scrambles in after him. Cougar leans over the front seat and they secure Pooch as best they can manage under the circumstances. Jensen’s pretty sure he can see Cougar’s lips moving as he works, murmuring down at Pooch, and he curses that for all he’s an expert at reading _Cougar_ , he’s pretty shit at reading lips.

Jensen wants to grab Cougar in that moment, to reassure him; or hell, wants to be badly injured so that Cougar could not-fuss over him. But Jensen doesn’t even have words at his disposal right now, and Clay is banging on the back window, signalling that he and Roque were secure, and it’s time to get the fuck out of dodge. Cougar thumps back down into the driver’s seat and floors the accelerator as gently as humanly possible.

~*~

The safe house is an apartment crammed into a building that is in turn crammed into a city block. This does not bode well for its roach-rating. The safe house doesn’t have a particularly high comfort rating, either; Jensen does the reconnoitre: one tiny kitchen/dining area, one tiny bathroom, and two bedrooms. The first has two ancient singles, and the other has a double. Jensen takes stock and is shoving the double against the far wall, prepping the space for playing later even as he hollers: “Clear!” The legs of the bed drag black marks across the tiles, but he doesn’t care, and it’s not like the military cares about the cleanliness of their boltholes.

They dump kit over the kitchen floor, and dump teammates with slightly more finesse on the floor and couches. Jensen’s hearing has returned enough that Roque’s swearing is not only audible, but practically music to his ears. Hell, a guy with a gaping leg wound is allowed to gripe.

What the place lacks in roach spray it makes up for in medical supplies. Clay and Cougar respectively hold down and sew up Roque, and Jensen quizzes Pooch on presidents (asshole politicians, all of them) and fingers (one each of both hands) and tends to the gash on Pooch’s head.

“How bad is it?” Pooch asks, doing the slow and steady breathing as Jensen pulls the thread through his skin.

“Depends,” Jensen says. “How does Jolene feel about scars?”

“I’m fucked,” Pooch groans, but it’s his laughter afterwards that finally loosens the tension in Jensen’s chest. 

They dope Pooch up for the concussion headache, and Roque parks himself in the other bed, nominating himself for first shift. They’ve done the in-hospital-for-concussion routine enough times to know the wake-and-quiz cycle is 4 hours, but it doesn’t escape anyone’s notice that Roque’s setting his alarm for half that.

Jensen cleans himself up and then takes the table by default, spreading laptops and cables and hard drives. This would generally be the cue for Cougar to stake out the other side of the table with his rifle and cleaning gear, and somewhere in the muddle of picking up of each other’s stuff, and the nudging of each other to get something, Jensen would be able to establish for himself that Cougar’s okay.

Except that Cougar's commandeered an arm of the couch way over the other side of the room. He's making a good approximation of sprawling comfortably over it, his hat covering his face, but his breathing is just that little... off, and there's that tiny thrum of tension, like a cable wire vibrating with signal.

Clay takes the sat phone and himself into the other bedroom, closing the door. Jensen didn’t need to clock the number of buttons he hit on the way across the room to know he's calling in a mission report.

Jensen is used to a silent Cougar –of course he is – but withdrawn and uncommunicative Cougar is pretty rare, and Jensen is so close to opening his mouth and asking “how you doing?” – such a meaningless, useless question – that he heads out and tries to make himself more useful elsewhere. 

He returns with empanadas, takes one in for Roque, leaves one for Clay and takes one over to Cougar.

"Eat," he says, and holds it out, waiting him out, until Cougar reaches out, unerringly, without looking, and takes it. Jensen turns his back and lets Cougar eat in peace.

The low rumble of Clay's voice through the wall rises briefly: "Yeah, well your intel was _shit_. Sir." And Jensen figures it might be a couple of days before they get a lift out of here. He's okay with that; Pooch and Roque probably need a few days to recuperate and Cougar... well. Snipers are usually way out of harm's way. Doesn't mean they come out okay.

Jensen’s empanada is long gone by the time Clay emerges looking tired and pissed. He drops the cell on the table, then glances knowingly across the room.

"Cougs," Clay says, soft. Nothing and no one else – maybe not even Jensen – could have got Cougar to move his hat in that moment, but Cougar raises his hand and pushes the side of the brim up slightly with the tips of his fingers, exposing one eye to the light, to Clay.  
"Thank you," Clay says, just as quiet, just as steady. Cougar nods, once, and lowers the brim again.

Clay glances at Jensen, and he barely has to quirk an eyebrow, doesn't even have to flick a glance in Cougar's direction, for Jensen to know exactly what Clay's asking. _You got Cougar?_ And Jensen nods, because, yeah, he does.

Jensen plugs his way through hacking scripts until the others have bedded down for the night. He gives them a good twenty minutes to actually fall asleep – Pooch and Roque to their drugs, with Clay on his bedroll between them in the other room -- before he shuts down his laptop. Cougar hasn't moved in all that time, but the thrumming is still there, pulling at Jensen like a barely audible hum and filling the silence that Jensen's laptop fan has suddenly vacated.

He stands and stretches, arching his lower back and rolling his shoulders. Cougar's too wired for Jensen to be able to sneak up on him, and Jensen doesn't even try. He pads barefoot across the room and reaches out, hooks a single finger under their bracelets around Cougar's wrist, and tugs, just once.

Cougar unfolds, lithe and sinuous, hat still pulled low over his face, and obeys the summons. Jensen keeps his finger hooked, and leads him across the kitchen to the bedroom before he releases his hold.

The bedroom is lit by the room's crappy single globe, but this wasn't about exposing each other, not tonight. All they've got is lube and condoms this trip, and that's hopefully all they're going to need.

Jensen closes the door, quietly, and stands looking at Cougar.

They'd showered and changed out of blood-splattered clothes, but it's hot, the open window letting in much of the traffic noise and none of the breeze. The floor tiles are the closest thing to cool in the room. Cougar has moved a few strides into the room, enough space – just – for Jensen to do a full circuit around him, if Jensen wants. Jensen finds himself nodding in approval, but he stays where he is and just takes a moment to drink in the sight of Cougar: his muscles, his hands clasped in front of him, reverse of parade rest, enough to distinguish it to both of them as _different_. 

Cougar's back is rigid with tension, and his head is bowed too low. They don't do reticent; Cougar is one of the pushiest, most enthusiastic subs Jensen’s ever played with and hiding his face is about as non-communicative as Cougar gets.

Jensen reaches up, slowly, and takes off Cougar's hat.

The Look on Cougar's face is still there; more muted after hours of confinement in the transport and the close proximity of patching each other up, but it still makes Jensen want to wince. 

_I thought you were dead_ , Cougar’s look says, _I could have_ shot _you_ , plain in the tightness of his jaw, the tamped down fear in his eyes. It's not the first time, and it's not going to be the last, but this mission had been a bad one.

He places Cougar’s hat brim-up on the nightstand, and the fact that Cougar tracks Jensen’s face rather than his hat tells Jensen everything he needs to know about how rattled Cougar was about the afternoon.

Jensen holds steady eye contact, trying to acknowledge and absorb what he can, and then he reaches out, sliding his hands into Cougar's hair, and kisses him, hard. Jensen holds his grip firm, controlling the kiss when Cougar tries to press into him.

Cougar's hands are untouched between their bodies, and the unwritten rules say that they're free to wander. They don't, though: Cougar wraps his arms around Jensen's back and holds tight, tight enough that Jensen breaks off the kiss and returns the embrace, letting Cougar control the moment. Cougar eventually relaxes his hold, and Jensen eases back enough to rest their foreheads together, and breathe unevenly in the quiet.

“You were amazing out there,” Jensen whispers. "We’re okay. We’re _fine_ because of you."

Cougar shivers, and, if anything, tightens his grip again. For one of the few times since they've started playing, Jensen isn't completely sure how to proceed. He turns his head and presses his face against Cougar's neck, breathing in the smell of him: fresh sweat and leather and gun oil, and starts, lightly, to suck and nip at the tight muscles of Cougar's shoulder.

Cougar whimpers and tilts his head, giving Jensen access up his neck, and somewhere between the taste and the scents and the _sounds_ Cougar is making, Jensen's body ignores anything Jensen's brain might be worried about and starts getting with the program all on its own.

Cougar grins against Jensen's neck, his beard rubbing across his own stubble, and then Cougar starts rubbing lightly, illicitly against Jensen's crotch, and Jensen's brain finally catches up.

"Stop," he says, low and firm. Cougar freezes instantly, mouth half open against Jensen's skin, and awaits his orders.

Jensen taps Cougar’s arm, and Cougar drops his grip and takes half a step back, clasping his hands loosely. His head is lowered, but without his hat and with his hair pushed back there's nothing to hide his face, and the relief that is starting to relax his face. 

Jensen debates what he should do, but he knows what he wants, and that damn well wins this time. He reaches out and tugs up Cougar's shirt, running his hands over strong abs, and up under the shirt. He brushes his fingertips over Cougar's nipples, lightly, and then scratches, a little less lightly. Cougar keens, and visibly tries to stop his hips canting forward.

"Shh," Jensen admonishes. "Thin walls."

The look Cougar shoots him is positively murderous, and it warms the cockles of Jensen's heart, but Cougar does bite his lip and try and steady his breathing.

Jensen nods approvingly and pushes Cougar's shirt higher, up to his shoulders. Cougar's nipples are small, tight nubs, regardless of the heat of the room. His hands are curled loosely at his sides, flexing a little as he tries to keep still. Jensen leans in, bending to get the right height, and mouths Cougar's tattoo, tantalisingly close to Cougar's left nipple. Cougar's hands lock into fists.

"Please," Cougar breathes.

It’s one of their rules: if Cougar wants pain, he has to ask for it. Jensen works on making the transition smooth, sliding the tip of his tongue away from the curve of the ink and up to Cougar's nipple. Cougar's breath hitches, and Jensen scrapes his teeth over Cougar's nipple, and bites.

It's a light one, but they're both raw from the day, and everything is slightly closer to the surface. Cougar cries out, low in throat. Jensen presses his hand against Cougar's groin, because he's nowhere near above playing dirty here, and palms the shape of Cougar's erection through the fabric as he goes for Cougar's other nipple. Cougar keens and rocks against Jensen's hand as Jensen nips sharply.

Jensen grins and steps back abruptly, leaving Cougar swaying at the loss of contact.

“Off,” Jensen orders. Cougar pulls his shirt all the way off and then toes out of his boots in an impressive show of balance. His jeans go just as fast. He kicks his clothes into the corner, out of the way, and resumes their not-parade rest, his gaze averted to the floor, his hands behind his back, his erection curving up towards his stomach.

It’s a beautiful view; Jensen opens his mouth, and then finds he has to swallow to get enough saliva to speak.

"Condom," he manages, reasonably clearly. "For me."

Cougar blinks, considers the ramifications of that, and nods. The sight of Cougar bare-backed, muscles shifting as he leans over to get into Jensen's pack, is enough to make Jensen's mouth go dry again.

Cougar tosses the lube and condoms within reach on the bed and gestures politely. _May I?_

Jensen nods, and Cougar raises his hands to Jensen’s face, his fingers brushing Jensen’s temples as he slides Jensen’s glasses from his face. The world instantly fuzzes at the edges, but he’s nowhere near blind enough to miss the fact that Cougar rests the glasses in his hat on the nightstand. They take Jensen’s T-shirt off together, Cougar’s hands rubbing the length of Jensen’s arms deliciously, and then Cougar folds to his knes, his form impeccable.

Cougar undoes Jensen's belt with care, and, even more carefully, each button of the fly, before easing Jensen's boxers down. He rolls the condom on with practised efficiency and then he tilts his face, raising his eyes to Jensen's, lips slightly parted expectantly like he's kneeling to receive some kind of Communion, and it's _Jensen's_ turn to clench his fists. 

"Oh, damn you," he breathes. "That's not fair, man."

He tears his gaze away and stares at the water stains up the wall instead, and Jensen makes himself think _garbage disposal, tax returns, mission reports..._ because Cougar's mouth is _right there_. But Jensen’s going to last all of three seconds in Cougar’s skilled mouth, and he wants something more lingering than a fast orgasm tonight.

"Bed," Jensen orders instead, more than a little hoarsely. A smirk dances at the edges of Cougar's lips, but he unfolds just as gracefully and obeys, backing towards the bed. His eyes rove over Jensen's skin and Jensen knows that it's an admiring gaze, but he also knows what Cougar's looking for.

“I’m fine,” Jensen insists. Cougar changes the angle of his head minutely, and somehow with barely anything more than that shifts from smug to delivering the loudest non-verbal “Uh- _huh_ ” Jensen’s ever received.

Jensen does a slow turn, letting Cougar catalogue his newly-earned scrapes and bruises. He completes the pivot, eyebrows raised slightly, and Cougar nods, slow and satisfied. Then Jensen advances a step and Cougar retreats one, and the dance resumes.

"Face down," Jensen says. Cougar hasn't taken his eyes off Jensen, and he holds the eye contact as he backs up, leaning back casually on braced arms, his feet flat on the floor. Cougar knows better than to smirk outright when he's challenges an order, but his eyes are gleaming.

It's like that, then.

Jensen closes the distance in two short strides and _shoves_ , open-handed against Cougar's chest, crowding in fast over Cougar's legs and flipping him over onto his stomach. The bedsprings creak under their weight, but Jensen’s beyond caring.

Cougar squirms and twists, making Jensen work for each of Cougar’s wrists as he grabs them and pins them to the mattress. He lifts his hips off Cougar, giving Cougar the space to fight, and Cougar thrashes and struggles, until he's not anymore, until he _rolls_ , sinuously, back against Jensen, and Jensen's hips roll along for the ride, and they're fucking in all but name, and _Jesus_ it's good, Jensen could –

His brain is a couple of thrusts ahead of his body; he's thinking _no, wait_ , because he's the one that's meant to be driving this show, even as his hips grind down, even as he teeters on the edge of orgasm.

Jensen shifts up and brings his hand down, hard, on Cougar’s ass. Cougar grunts and thrusts so hard into the mattress that Jensen nearly thinks he’s come, but then Cougar pushes his ass up, and _there’s_ Cougar, looking back over his shoulder, not so much offering his ass for another blow as demanding it. Jensen’s hand is stinging sweetly, and his other palm is practically itching for the opportunity.

“What?” Jensen demands in return. “You think you’ve earned that, have you?”

And he has. He’s earned whatever he wants to ask of Jensen and then some, but there’s a limit to how much they can potentially ask the rest of the gang to politely not-hear.

Jensen leans in close, makes it a low and dirty growl in Cougar’s ear. “You just wait til we get home.”

Cougar groans, still writhing against the sheets a little. "Easy," Jensen murmurs. He runs his fingers through Cougar's hair until Cougar can take mostly steady breaths.

Jensen eases off Cougar, kneeling up, and Cougar whines in protest, but holds still. Jensen snags the lube from the bedside table and slicks his fingers, watching Cougar's face; his hair is tangled across his cheek, his eyes closed, mouth slightly open, nostrils flaring with each breath, waiting, anticipating.

"You gonna hold still for me?" Jensen asks, and strokes lubed fingers against the crack of Cougar's ass, temptingly. 

Cougar’s body might have steadied, but his chuckle is nowhere near calm.

“How are we defining ‘still’?” he says.

“I’ll let you know,” Jensen says, and presses two fingers in deep. Cougar inhales sharply, opening for the invasion, and Jensen can feel Cougar’s thighs and back muscles flexing as he works to keep still, obeying orders.

Jensen works his hand, and he can tell the moment Cougar starts to let go; his eyes flicker closed, and his lips start moving soundlessly. He rocks minutely, back against Jensen’s fingers, such small enough movements that it’s almost not worth punishing him for it. Or, well, there’s a fine line between punishment and torment; they couldn’t do a beating here, but Jensen could maybe give him something else. Jensen adds a third finger, and Cougar grunts softly in surprise but a moment later the rocking starts again.

Jensen shifts up onto his knees, giving Cougar free movement, and withdraws his fingers enough to be able to brush the tip of his little finger against his other fingers, against Cougar’s entrance. He can feel Cougar hesitate; it’s more than he’s ever asked of Cougar before, more than Cougar has asked for. 

He rubs his other hand up Cougar’s back, into his hair. They’re on familiar territory here; Cougar relaxes his neck and lets Jensen pull his head back, tills his neck to offer the skin for biting.

“We could,” Jensen whispers. “ _You_ could. You’d be so beautiful, stretched for my hand like that.” Cougar swallows, his throat shifting under Jensen’s lips. “It’ll hurt,” Jensen breathes, like it’s a secret between the two of them, and Cougar _shudders_. He shifts, drawing his arms and legs in a little for leverage, and nudges back a tiny bit, assenting.

Jensen pauses, letting Cougar sweat over that choice for a moment and takes the opportunity to add more lube. Then adds his little finger to the others and presses in again, slowly. It’s tight, and hot, and Jensen shifts his hand from side to side, incrementally, and Cougar _takes_ it. He’s breathing slow and deep, shaking, and Jensen doesn’t even realise they’re matching each other’s breathing until his thumb is pressing in, and they’ve both stopped breathing. He inhales, and Cougar follows suite.

“Okay?” Jensen asks, not entirely sure if he himself is. But Cougar nods, jerkily, so Jensen rallies, and slowly, slowly starts to twist his hand. The tip of his thumb is in now, pressed crushingly tight against the rest of his fingers. Cougar is panting, and a trickle of sweat is sliding down between his shoulder blades. “God,” Jensen whispers. “You’re fucking amazing.” Cougar’s panting changes pitch as he grins, and Jensen presses in again, rotating gently, slowly.

He can feel the moment it becomes too much, the infinitesimal change in tension, beyond the pressure around his hand; Cougar is arching away, almost imperceptibly, and Jensen stops just before Cougar grunts.

“It’s okay,” Jensen whispers, leaning over Cougar’s back, kissing the trickle of sweat. He turns his hand ever so slightly, not pressing inwards, but seeking. He feels with his fingertips in the impossibly confined space, and finds. “Come for me,” he whispers, pressing, and Cougar does.

His body locks around Jensen’s hand, almost painfully tight, but the groans that escape Cougar’s compressed lips are more than worth it. Jensen strokes him through the last racking shudders. He wraps his free arm around Cougar’s chest and guides them together onto their sides, away from the wet spot, and begins the slow extraction process.

“Okay?” he asks as he slips his fingers free. Cougar’s chuckle is utterly exhausted.

“ _Estupendo_ ,” Cougar sighs. He fumbles between their bodies, reaching wholly uncoordinatedly for Jensen, and Jensen captures Cougar’s hand, grinning tiredly.

“It’s okay,” he says against Cougar’s shoulder, wrapping their arms around Cougar’s chest. “Think of it as really, really owing me one.”

“ _De nada_ ,” Cougar mumbles. His head rests heavier against Jensen’s arm, and Jensen settles against the pillows and follows him into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> My Spanish is Google-translator mangled. If you know of a better word to use, I'd be delighted to know! Ditto for typos and related tiny critters of mistakes.
> 
> A hundred thanks to M for the amazing, expert beta <3


End file.
